Reaching Out
by Sha Feferi
Summary: It isn't always easy to extend the hand of friendship, but sometimes it's necessary. Johanna navigates her first Games as a Victor. Finnick tries to help. (Rated M for references to President Snow's Victor 'business'. Nothing explicit, but I wanted to be safe. Also, Johanna has a potty mouth.)


_A/N: So I haven't written any fanfiction in a very very long time, but then Catching Fire came out and I remembered all of the Johanna feels that I had when I read the books, and eventually this had to be written. Sorry if I have lost of of my writing/characterisation/grammar skills during my very long fic-writing hiatus! And I'm sorry if the line between the perspective changes is annoying, I couldn't find any other way to separate them properly, due to 's formatting rules. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

When they first meet she's fuming. Angry has been her natural state for months now, but two weeks of holding still while the Capitol's finest tweak her hair and eyebrows and clothes, reciting empty phrases to crowds of indifferent people and obeying orders have her ready to bury her axe in the nearest person's face. So when he glides into his seat beside her. she is not in the mood. Unfortunately, if he sees that he pays no attention. And she doubts he sees it. Finnick Odair, the golden boy of District Four, cannot see his company as anything other than a blessing to others.

"Johanna Mason," he drawls, flashing his perfect teeth as he grins at her. "What a pleasure."

He probably expects her to swoon at his feet, but Johanna Mason swoons for no man and especially not for a Capitol plaything. Instead she ignores the false pleasantry and picks up a gold-plated fork from the table, twirling it idly between her fingertips.

"Should I be afraid?" She asks.

Finnick arches one perfect eyebrow. "Afraid?"

She gestures impatiently with the fork. "This was your weapon of choice, wasn't it?"

"Tri-dent." He enunciates carefully, reaching out to snatch the fork from her in one deft movement. Oh yes, this man is dangerous, despite his silver tongue. "It was a trident. This is a fork. Rather less dangerous, I think you'll find."

"I could still kill you with it if I wanted," she snaps, and channels all of her anger into a death glare. He doesn't flinch, which only aggravates her further, and she slouches in her seat as he sets the fork down just out of her reach.

"And that," he says, "is why you won't be getting it back."

* * *

He hadn't paid attention to her during the Games. Annie's presence as a Mentor had been requested by the president himself, and between keeping her as sane as possible and taking on double the usual number of appointments to keep her duties to a minimum, he had no time to devote to anything else. Now that he has time to really look at the newest Victor, he feels a crippling sense of guilt. Because she is beautiful despite the attitude which she clings to like a shield of thorns, and she is of age, and she is going to suffer for the deals he has made this year. When one Victor is kept from the clutches of the Capitol, it will surely sink its claws ten times more tightly into the next.

They first meet during the pantomime that the Capitol likes to call the Victory Tour. She steps off the train and it couldn't be more obvious that she's throwing a strop, ignoring everything the pink-haired escort accompanying the party says. This amuses Finnick. He's predisposed to like anyone who makes it difficult for the Capitol citizens.

Her attitude doesn't make her easy to like though, as he discovers when he is seated next to her at dinner later. He uses all his charm, his humour, even his flirtation skills, but nothing breaks through her frosty exterior. But he still wants to like her, because few enough people like Victors so it's best that they don't start turning on one another, and because she is so stubborn it's almost comical. Even when he had slid the fork back towards her, she had continued eating with her teaspoon. So before he leaves he insists on a dance. When they're dancing, heads so close they're almost touching, he leans in further and whispers in her ear.

"You may not like it but you're a Victor now. We can be your friends, if you'll let us."

He doesn't look back at her as he leaves. He knows that she won't listen to him yet. But he hopes that when she needs him (and she will need someone, so it might as well be him) she'll remember.

A week or so later, he's called to the Capitol on 'urgent business'. All of the usual suspects are there, but one face he's expected is notably absent. This time her defiance doesn't amuse him. He only wonders what it has cost her.

* * *

"What do we do?" It's the day of the Tribute parade for the 72nd Games and both of her tributes look downright terrified. Which is a problem, because after her year she's sure the Careers are telling their tributes to slaughter anyone who looks the slightest bit afraid just to be safe, especially if they come from Seven. And besides, it doesn't look like an act in their case.

"Johanna?" The boy asks again. She loses the thin control on her temper.

"Smile. Wave. Try not to fall out of the chariot. And stop asking questions!"

She storms off, but only makes it a few paces because Finnick's there, leaning against a pillar and suppressing a smirk.

"Unorthodox mentoring technique," he comments.

Johanna flings her arms skyward in frustration. "They're going to die whatever I do," she admits. "So really, what the fuck is the point?"

One of the stylists turns at the curse, scowling disapprovingly and Johanna lets out a bitter laugh. Then the Panem anthem begins and they all fall back to watch the parade.

"I'm not sure mine stand a chance either," Finnick says as the District Two chariot thunders past. "Have you seen the boy from Two? He reminds me of Brutus, only more..."

"Brutish?" Johanna suggests.

Finnick wrinkles his nose. "I'm not convinced that's a word, but yes."

"Pedant." Johanna scowls at him.

"My my, we are grumpy." Finnick teases, producing something from behind his back. "Want a sugar cube? It might sweeten you up."

"What do you want Odair?" Johanna snaps. He was almost amusing her for a second, but now he's back to being an irritation.

Finnick raises his hands in mock surrender. "I was going to invite you to the party of the century, but maybe I won't bother now."

Johanna laughs and turns to go, letting him know exactly what she thinks of his party.

"Meet at nine on the roof," she hears him call after her. "Trust me, you don't want to miss it."

* * *

It's a good party, Finnick muses as he stretches out on a bench a little away from the crowd. All of the usual Victors are in attendance, and even their newest recruit appears to be enjoying herself. She'll certainly have friends in abundance if she wants them, anyone who can match Haymitch Abernathy drink for drink will fit right in with this crowd.

He's had a few drinks himself and isn't focusing as clearly as he might, so he's caught by surprise when she lurches into his field of vision. She stands over him and points and accusing finger in his face.

"You said you were inviting me to the party of the century," she slurs. "And this is a bunch of Victors getting pissed on a roof."

"It's exclusive," he shrugs. "Want me to introduce you?"

"Want me to rip your head off?" She counters.

"Oh Mason," he chuckles. "I'd like to see you try."

It's more of a reference to her slowed reflexes than anything, as she's undoubtedly more drunk than him (and no wonder, for all the bravado she's still only seventeen). But really, after all these years he should know better to joke about a Victor's killing skills. Suddenly her face is inches from his, eyes flashing with rage.

"Did you not see what I did to the boy from your district last year?" she hisses. "Sliced his head clean off with my axe. And I slit your girl's throat while she was sleeping. I was responsible for both their deaths."

But the anger seems to have left her by the time she gets to this last sentence, and he remembers what it was like to be fresh out of the Games (sometimes feels like he still is),

so he nods slowly and sits up to make room for her on the bench.

"She was dying anyway," he says when she's seated. "Took a knife to the leg at the Cornucopia and there was nothing we could send her. We think she only had a day or two left in her."

They don't discuss the boy. They both know there are things you have to do to survive.

* * *

They're 48 hours into the 72nd Hunger Games and District Seven is out of the running. Johanna is surprised that they made it that far, Aspen had run for a sword at the Cornucopia and ended up running into it as the boy from One held it and laughed. But Cassia had had the good sense to run, which had made things worse in a way, drawing out the procedure, as Johanna dared to allow herself some hope until the brute from Two found her sleeping and snapped her neck with his bare hands.

At least now she can get some sleep, she thinks, standing up from the seat which has been her home for the past two days. Although she might have to find Blight first and give him a piece of her mind for leaving her to man the Seven Mentors' Room alone.

She has taken one step out of the room when she bumps into Finnick.

"Hey!" He flashes her the smile that would have half of Panem weak at knees. "Mags just took over from me, so I was going to bring you some food, but then I saw Brutus 2.0's handiwork, so now you have options."

"Options?"

Finnick holds up three fingers. "Option One. Haymitch is holding his usual 'My tributes are out of the Games now let's get wasted party' on Twelve. Does what it says on the tin, but worth it just to see how much he can annoy his escort. Option Two. You go to bed. Most sensible, least fun, unless you have someone to join you." He breaks off, grinning wickedly. "Option Three. We stage a breakout and go for dinner in the Capitol."

"A breakout?" Johanna queries.

"Maybe not technically a breakout," Finnick admits. "But when you've spent an entire week in the same building, it sure feels like one."

And despite the fact that she hasn't slept since the Games began, dinner suddenly sounds like a great idea.

(It turns out to have been not such a great idea when she wakes disoriented the next day to a note from Finnick instructing her to call him for a blow-by-blow account of her falling asleep face down in her starter and having to be carried home, but you can't be expected to have perfect judgement with that level of sleep deprivation.)

* * *

It's a client who tells him what he'd already half suspected, as they're sipping champagne in the rooftop garden overlooking the Capitol. This particular client is a fat, aging ex-Gamemaker, prone to hiring out two Victors at once for double the pleasure. Finnick is idly wondering what he did to deserve the honour of being alone tonight, when the man tells all.

"I was hoping to try out last year's Victor, you know," he whispers confidentially, with a silly, affected giggle. "I thought the two of you might make a good pair. But President Snow said she wasn't available yet. Probably still recovering." He purses his lips. "Poor girl."

Finnick frowns. It isn't usual for Capitol residents to acknowledge the emotional trauma endured by the survivors of their beloved Games. But then the explanation comes.

"Such a tragedy," he mourns. "That forest fire killing her family, and just when she should have been celebrating her triumph. I hear it's just her and her mother now, poor thing probably needs some time to get over the grief. Hopefully she'll be available by the next Games."

It's exactly as he suspected, but Finnick still finds himself musing over it the next morning. Haymitch notices him watching Johanna, and gives him a sharp clip on the back of the head when she moves away from the group.

"You need to stop doing that," he warns. "The last thing that girl needs is pity."

Finnick supposes he should be surprised that Haymitch knew what he was thinking, surprised at the implied knowledge behind it, but then again if anyone was going to understand this situation it would be Haymitch. And he knows that Haymitch is right, that he can't let her know what he's just learned.

He is used to guarding secrets, but this one sits heavy on his chest.

* * *

She is surprised and furious when she wakes to the scent of blood and roses and finds the notecard propped up on her dresser with the offending flower beside it. She knows it wasn't there when she went to sleep, and the thought that he could have been here makes her skin crawl. Then the telephone rings and she is too mute with fury and disgust even to utter a greeting.

But it seems the president isn't in the mood to be reasonable. "Now Miss Mason," he purrs down the line, his voice smooth as silk but with a deadly undertone. "I do hope you'll be more…reasonable this time. It would be such a shame if another accident were to befall your family."

There is a click as the line disconnects and Johanna hurls the phone at the wall with a frustrated scream. She wants to vomit, or cry, or set fire to the apartment, but she was meant to be meeting the others for breakfast ten minutes ago so she supposes that all of those things will have to wait.

"You OK?" Finnick asks, as she pulls out the chair opposite him and sinks into it. It's well-meaning, but she is not in the mood for sympathy.

"Would you be OK if I wore your testicles as earrings?" She snaps, and Haymitch shuffles his chair away from her. Finnick chuckles.

"Don't worry," he says flippantly. "That's just how she shows she cares."

But he keeps shooting her worried looks throughout breakfast and when she stands to leave he follows her.

"Johanna..." He starts, laying a hand on her arm. She shakes him off angrily.

"Testicles. As. Earrings." She reminds him, and storms out of the apartment. He may be the closest thing she's had to a friend since the Reaping, but she can't discuss this with anyone.

* * *

He's been waiting for it to happen since the day they met, but it's still a shock when he bumps into her in the elevator at three the next morning. Impressive bruises are forming on her wrists and left cheekbone, and she's hobbling a little. He takes one look at her and sighs deeply.

"How about a drink?" He asks, and she just nods. He doesn't know what to say when she's sitting cross-legged on his bed with an empty look in her eyes that he desperately wants to wipe away. But he can't remember anything that Gloss or Cashmere said when they sat on either side of him in the deserted back room of that bar not so many years ago, he only remembers the alcohol that they supplied and how it took the pain and the memories until everything was dulled. So he offers her a bottle of whiskey, as well as a seashell-shaped glass which she declines, and watches as she swigs from the neck at a rate that would put even Haymitch to shame.

He's starting to worry that she might drink herself into a coma when a shudder passes through her entire body and she clamps a hand over her mouth as she begins to retch. He grabs a trash can (also shaped like a sea shell) and runs her back as the alcohol comes back up. When she's done she slumps into him almost unconsciously and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer. She opens her mouth like she wants to talk, but before she can form any words she's sobbing. He just tightens his grip and lets her cry until she falls into an exhausted sleep, still slumped against his chest.

Two hours later she wakes screaming and thrashing from a nightmare she can't remember and that's when she tells him everything. About the phone call on the Victory Tour, the request to stay in the Capitol to meet a few special friends of President Snow, her frank refusal, and the devastation that greeted her when she arrived home.

Her voice shakes when she gets to this part, but she forces herself to go on, describing the freak forest fire that had claimed her father and her two elder brothers, the bodies already in the ground, denying her even the small comfort of closure.

The grief is replaced with anger as she details the president's latest request, but she clams up before she can explain where the bruises came from and then she's retching again and the whole cycle is repeated.

When she seems to be sleeping peacefully at last he slips from the bed and allows himself a moment to grieve for her, and for himself, and for all of the rest of the Victors caught in this awful situation.

* * *

Two days later she hears that her mother has been found swinging from the rafters in the empty house that was once filled with her family. She invites Finnick to the roof with a bottle of white liquor stolen from Haymitch's supply and greets him jubilantly when he arrives.

"He can't get to me anymore," she crows. "My mother's dead, so they're all gone now. There's no-one left that I love."

No-one left that loves me, comes the echo in her head as she wonders if her celebrations sound as hollow in Finnick's ears as they do in her own.


End file.
